


An Angel's Temptation

by HariSlate



Series: Jealous? [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide", Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Canon - Book, First Kiss, Gay Bar, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Section 28, angel of love aziraphale, crowley and aziraphale are genderless but have been around humans for a long time okay - freeform, gay history, or liking because yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HariSlate/pseuds/HariSlate
Summary: As an Angel, certain people have always revolved around Aziraphale. Crowley has never been happy about this, and maybe he will convince Aziraphale to admit he isn't so innocent after all.EDIT because the last part of the story had been cut off
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Jealous? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416070
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	An Angel's Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this is set in the late nineties/early 2000s, and about ten years after the events of Other Things.
> 
> Next, I would like to say that yes, the gay bar has a very unimaginative name, but when I first thought of it I was legitimately naming it after a gay bar that briefly existed in my home town, and it took disgustingly long for it to hit me how relevant it is (I am slow), so now it is staying.
> 
> Finally, I was six when Section 28 was repealed, so it didn't effect me, but the opportunity for me to learn about queer history arose during college and university, and that has been very important to me. This is why the b-plot is what it is.

The apocalypse had been and gone. Soho had changed. Crowley had been frequenting these streets for centuries, and the clientele had changed a fair few times. He was unsure how much of this latest evolution was down to Aziraphale’s influence.

He was sitting in a bar, a street or two down from the angel’s bookshop. They were talking more these days, but Crowley was greedy.

Once upon a time, he would have said that just talking to Aziraphale would be enough. Hah. He was fooling himself. So here he was, a stone’s throw from the shop, where Aziraphale would never show his face.

The bar was slightly seedy, awaiting the soon-to-come gentrification; but until then it was dim enough to obscure faces. He was seated across from a man who most definitely did not look like his angel.[1] He was sipping at his whiskey, the man had gin. Crowley had his perfectly practiced smile, dripping with absent temptation. But this time, it felt more personal. Almost illicit. If Crowley said that out loud, they would have rescinded his demon card.

But Crowley had spent so long pining after that angel, he hadn’t thought about doing anything for his own sake. And here he was, opposite a man who was free from the hang ups of six thousand some years. Simpler not to risk millenia’s friendship.

“I’ve not seen you here before.” Crowley didn’t pay attention to his answer, turned on his conversational autopilot. The man was undeniably attractive; it caught in the demon’s throat when he smiled. Crowley tried to hide his blush, but here there was no reason to. He might as well play up the most minor attraction, get a pretty face in his bed.

The man was laughing, apparently his autopilot was funny. Well, he ordered the man another drink, was about to move things along, when the door opened.

It was winter in London, miserable and cutting. The sky went from yellow-grey to just grey, and then back to the light polluted yellow of the night sky. So how was there sunshine?

But Aziraphale was an angel, he was perpetually shrouded in excess. Crowley wouldn’t have been surprised had it spontaneously decided to snow, and Aziraphale had arrived at this Soho gay bar (very much not his scene, Crowley would like to emphasise) with white specs in his dark hair, evening primrose pollen at dusk.

Of course, the arrival of the angel effectively short-circuited his autopilot, and the handsome man he had been successfully chatting up was looking round at the new arrival.

“You don’t stand a chance.”

“Sorry?”

“Half the regulars have tried it on with that guy, I don’t get it myself.” So, Aziraphale was a regular. Why in He-why on earth would his angel come to a place like this, all quiet poverty and loud secrets.

“Let’s get out of here.” He couldn’t be seen by Aziraphale, not tonight and not here. He would only lose his nerve. The man gave him a look, so he turned on the temptation and then they were speeding through London in the Bentley.

“The man in the bar-”

“I’m not here to talk about Ezra, Anthony.”

“No, no, I just-” A sharp turn out of Soho, “I just thought I recognised him, is all. Ezra, you said?”

“Yeah, Ezra Fell. He owns a bookshop down the road from the bar. Local legend, been around forever.”

“Right. That explains it.” Hardly.

—

He felt silly, taking this man back to his flat. It was so cold. The heating was up—he insisted only for his own reptilian comfort, ignore the tropical greenery—but those seemed to be the only things that were alive. He certainly wasn’t, and his flat felt like a tax dodge.[2]

It was meaningless. That’s what he needed. Exertion, stress relief, control. The man left immediately, and Crowley only felt worse.

‘Ezra Fell’ was a regular; popular, but unattainable. That sounded like him. Sure, Aziraphale had seemed to have… relations, over the years, but he could never be sure anything happened. And seeing Aziraphale with whatever man, that felt about as bad as this did. Empty and lifeless, an itch as though he needed to shed, grow a new skin free of whatever humiliation was sure to come if the angel ever saw him at the Fruit. So he curled up under the duvet and slept for a week. He would not go back to the bar.

A month later, he was seated at the bar of the Forbidden Fruit, Soho. Well, the bartender was cute. Pale skin, long hair, about as far from Aziraphale as a man-shaped being could be. He was flirting, in a purely professional way. The last time had put him off casual sex, but he had to find out Aziraphale’s business. And of course he could never ask his friend. That would be silly.

“So, d’you give out free drinks on birthdays?”

“Is it your birthday?” The guy behind the bar seemed skeptical.

“Probably not, but I am so old I cannot remember when it is! So there’s always a chance.” He shrugged. He was dead sober, but it didn’t hurt to lay it on a little.

“Now, you don’t look that old.”

“Oh, I’m an old man!” He downed his whiskey, slumped over the bar. “Speaking of, an old friend of mine comes here. Wonder if you know him?”

“Maybe, what’s he like?” The young barman looked skeptical.

“Ezra Fell? Dark skin, blue eyes. Looks-”

“Perfect? Yeah, you’re not the first kid with a crush on Fell.” Now, Crowley didn’t think he looked that young. “He’s been coming here for years, longer than any of us. Speak of the devil!” Fuck, what? He spun in his chair to see that the bartender told the truth, the angel himself had arrived.

“Fuck, uuuh-”

“If you were really friends, you would talk to him.” The idiot looked like he thought he’d said something really insightful there, one eyebrow raised and mouth smirking. But by then, it was too late to hide.

“Crowley! What a surprise!” The bartender had already poured him a glass of wine, and Aziraphale paid with a smile and an extra large tip. “What brings you to my local?”

“Not you.” And that just slipped out. He swore he was sober a moment ago. Fuck. Fuck. Da-Heav-He-fuck. And that damned angel was looking so sorry. All pity and well natured, Heavenly love.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, but it’s hardly the Ritz—no offence.” A nod to the bartender.

“None taken.” The human seemed to be enjoying the show, hiding well his surprise at their apparent familiarity.

“Anyway, Richard, do you have-” ‘Richard’ slipped a file across the bar and Aziraphale smiled again. What Crowley wouldn’t do to get a hint of that smile. “You are wonderful!” Crowley picked up the file, slipped a glance at the contents.

“Angel, what’s-”

“Later, dear boy.” Aziraphale not-quite-snatched the file from his hands, hid his abrasion behind a sip of what had once been the house red.

“Now, don’t let me keep you, Crowley. I am sure you had a reason to be here.” That was a question and a placeholder, a chip to be redeemed at a later date.

“Right, yes, uuh. See you later, Angel.” But he couldn’t flirt with a stranger while Aziraphale was right there. And he hadn’t moved, and Aziraphale was smiling at him, and he certainly couldn’t move now. “Or I could just…” He was still smiling, damned Angel. Godly love that might just scorch.

“The shop?” And then Crowley was smiling back.

—

“So what’s in the file?” Crowley was two glasses in, Aziraphale smiled.

“I don’t want to bore you, my dear.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Crowley was not offended. Not really. But if Aziraphale wanted to keep him out of this part of his life, that hurt. “I don’t- I won’t judge you, if you’re… y’know.” Crowley could not look at his friend as he said it, but he felt eyes trained on him. This was not something they talked about, he was stepping carelessly over boundaries, feeling for the missing step in the dark. They both knew the chasm waiting.

“What? What makes you think-” He turned to see Aziraphale looking at him oddly, as though he had reverted to a snake without warning. “My dear boy, I’m not keeping secrets. It’s just… Pedestrian. Mortal matters. I’m helping out a friend.” So Crowley dropped it. Not believing it for a second. Another chip for when he could better wheedle out some honesty.

It was a nice night, not different from any other of the drunken hours Crowley spent in that back room. He fell asleep without sobering up, woke on a lumpy sofa with a head made of cotton wool. He could hear Aziraphale in the shop. Another voice, a stranger.

“It’s looking good. Thank you so much, Ezra.”

“It was no problem, truly,” Crowley could picture the smile Aziraphale was giving to his visitor, “Do thank Richard for his contribution.”

“Ah, yes, Richard. He has a message. ‘Cute boyfriend, about time’, he said.” No reply from Aziraphale, Crowley could feel his heart pounding. Aziraphale had a boyfriend?

Crowley was too distracted to hear the rest of their conversation. He would act normally this time. Gone were the days of getting piss drunk and swearing at humans.

—

Next time he was at the bar, sooner than he would like to admit, he kept his eyes peeled for he who had finally conquered the angel’s (deceptively cold) heart. The cute bartender—Richard—was not working.

“So, are the rumours true?” He’d found his one night stand. “Does Ezra Fell finally have a boyfriend?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“But this seemed like big news. You said he was unattainable.”

“Perhaps none of us are truly immune to his charms.” The man was smiling, and Crowley tried to remember his name, “Richard claims he left with somebody. The two of them were all pet names and staring.” Something in Crowley’s mind was trying to get his attention. “Richard’s known Ezra for years now, since he was a kid, first time he’s seen him give as good as he gets.”

“And did Richard say who this man was?”

He was being obvious, a love sick little demon. But was Aziraphale in a relationship? Something with reciprocated feelings and long-termness. That was new, even to Crowley.

Aziraphale was not that stupid, he knew more than to get attatched.

“I’m not planning on… er…” The snake avoided eye contact as he said it, felt un-demonly feelings rise in his chest and his cheeks.

“Likewise.” So it had been a miserable experience for both of them. Maybe Crowley was worse at temptation than he thought. “Why is everybody here obsessed with Ezra Fell?”

“I have been asking myself that since I first met him.”

“I thought you didn’t know him.” Something seemed to shift on his face.

“I lied.” Crowley needed a drink. Anything from the bar?”

He returned with a glass of wine and a rum and coke. Hoped that Aziraphale wouldn’t interrupt him that evening.

“I have known Ezra for a very long time, and he can be charming when he wants to. A bastard, too. But that doesn’t explain to me why he comes here.” The man gave a shrug and muttered something about politics.

—

The next time Crowley was with Aziraphale was at the Ritz. The most self-destructive parts of the snake wanted to ask about the boyfriend, about politics. About the file, and Richard, and all the other things that were part of an Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t know. But this angel, the one in the Ritz with his indulgences and easy smiles, this was a man shaped being all too familiar to Crowley.

This was an Aziraphale Crowley had never learned to question, had been reliant on in his security. The angel had hardly changed since the garden, and in a world that span so fast it made Crowley dizzy, he could cling to that stability. Yes, he thrived in the change, the spin, the rush of a light head when he rose from a century’s sleep to find a world unknown. But the joy of the change relied on him knowing he could always find his way home.

To question Aziraphale, when he was like this, might just light the match in the bookshop. He remembered the flames, the loss; he would not do that to his angel. Not in the Ritz, where they were both of them stable.

So they ordered overpriced wine, puddings for both of them that only Aziraphale would eat. And Crowley stared at his angel behind tinted glass, hoping that he wouldn’t notice, hoping that maybe he would.

—

Aziraphale was not blind. He knew the impression he had on the men at the Forbidden Fruit. While it was not something he wanted, it was still not wholly disagreeable. This was a sin, and one he could not tell Crowley; it is why he had never taken the snake to his namesake. But he was no longer a true angel, that was how he justified it—that did not excuse what was essentially temptation.

Crowley knew Aziraphale, better than anybody up top. He knew where his tastes in company lay, though no words had ever been exchanged on the topic. He had been to Aziraphale’s discreet gentleman’s club a couple of times, until the heat had become too much for even the angel to hold off. He had been witness to every one of Aziraphale’s quiet friendships over the years, the rumours that followed him.

Ancient Greece, hot skin and whispers. Crowley in an impossibly black toga, laughs tracing their steps down the streets. Neither of them caring enough to do anything to stop it. But the smiles that were directed at Aziraphale were of a different caliber, they both knew that. And he couldn’t help but wonder whether the snake recognised his own sin when it came from an angel.

But no, Aziraphale refused to call it temptation. That implied intent. He wished for nothing more than friendship, he would insist.

He was not uninterested, but he couldn’t just go and fall for the reflection of his own power. That was what made him an angel, when it came down to it.

The rare man who knew his own mind was far more interesting to Aziraphale. And of course, if they were strong enough not to fall in a mirror of love at a glance, they were probably already taken. Manders had interested him in that way; the sort who should dog his every step, utterly uninterested. The perfect friendship, one that Aziraphale struggled to form with humans. He had always meant to warn Manders about that strong of an attachment, but all he had managed was to mourn with him when he returned from the Boer.

Crowley had never been more than a silent witness to all this. Aziraphale let him assume as he would. Another man immune to his charms. Or, man shaped being. Perhaps that was why, or maybe he just knew Aziraphale too well. He had hoped for a time, that a crack would open in the ground and something would force them to talk. The apocalypse had seemed the perfect chance, but he was a coward still.

He remembered Mr Manders, the simplicity of friendship. That had never been the state of the Arrangement. As their two sides had melded into one, Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship only seemed to get more complex, and to nudge it towards an amorphous more could only shatter the webs that held them together.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the grim sound of the bell.

“Richard, hello! How have you been? Or is this a business call?”

“No, I just, could I?” Aziraphale gestured to an overstuffed armchair, once velvet. “How have you been, Ezra?”

“Wonderful, dear boy,” At that point, the kettle decided all on its own to boil, a whistle cutting through the quiet of the shop, “Tea?” He retreated to the kitchen, raising his voice.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale nodded, hummed, and dug out a cafetiere. He had to shout over the whistling kettle.

“What’s wrong?”

“Er, nothing, just… maybe don’t come by the Fruit for a week or so?” Aziraphale re-entered the shop, holding a brewing cafetiere.

“Why ever should I avoid the Fruit?”

“There have just been some rumours going around, I’m sorry Ezra.” Something in his chest that Aziraphale didn’t need froze, turned cold. “Some of the regulars got wind of your friend, I didn’t mean to, I just… let it slip.”

“My friend?”

“That young guy who came asking after you, called you Angel.” Said angel busied himself plunging the coffee. Hiding his face.

“What ever did you tell them about Anthony?” His voice was light, angelic essence overpowering his borrowed biology.

“That he was your boyfriend. They’re… jealous. I’m-”

“Jealous? Dear Richard, I can deal with jealousy. I shall warn Crowley away though, he’d be horrified.”

“Closeted?” Aziraphale hated the sympathy he heard.

“Straight.” Not strictly true. It was hard to be straight when you were without gender, and he had never known Crowley to enter into a relationship that wasn’t strictly for business.

“A heterosexual who came looking for his friend at a gay bar, chatted up Jon, left with him, and then came back to flirt?” And one thing Aziraphale was sure Crowley hadn’t had in centuries, if ever, was a one night stand. “You should talk to him, Angel.”

“Dear boy, please, I am not looking for your sterling relationship advice. I am an old man, and Crowley is a dear old friend. Perhaps at times we may appear to be more, but—”

“Okay, I get it.” His cheeks had reddened, perhaps he could recognise his friend’s discomfort. He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Back to business?” Aziraphale’s cue to relax. He set thoughts of the snake from his mind, ready perhaps to revisit when his stomach didn’t flip at the thought.

Richard’s reading list was good. A little modern for Aziraphale’s tastes, but that was likely for the best. He suggested some Germans. History was important. Aziraphale hardly specialised in what Richard would call ‘queer literature’, but he had a couple of original prints of the Chameleon that he had dug out of his personal collection.

“Any zines?”

“Excuse me, dear boy?” But Richard was laughing.

“This is amazing, thank you. I’ll copy these-” He gingerly held up the Chameleons, “And hand them off to James.”

“Fantastic.”

“But will this really do anything?”

“How long since you left school?” Richard blushed. “If you had this, would it have made a difference?”

“It would have meant a lot.” Voice low. Aziraphale smiled, sad.

“You young people need history, to know you’re not the first.”

After Richard had left, Aziraphale sat down with a cup of hot cocoa, considered the mess he was in. He was back, skirting the chasm. It was rare he was afraid to talk to his demon, but Crowley had his unknowns. He resolved to tell him the next time they met, but he would not seek out the snake.

Approach it wrong and this might be the killing blow.

—

Crowley spent a shameful amount of time in the bar. He could just ask Aziraphale who he was, but that would be a previously untrod conversational ground. Crowley was a demon, sneaky snake spying was far more conventional then speaking openly to his oldest friend.

After a week of espionage, the bartender approached him. Richard, Aziraphale had called him. Young, pretty, perhaps it was him. And those rumours were just boasting.

“Hasn’t Ezra spoken to you?” What? “He said he’d warn you off.”

“Sorry, am I not allowed to choose my drinking establishments now?” He didn’t know Richard well, but there was an oddly knowing smile on his face, “Do I not fit your quota of modern queerness?”

“Oh no, you definitely hit that, whatever Ezra seems to think.” What was he talking about? But Crowley hid his confusion.

Forever shadowing that angel, full of the sins of pride, Crowley looked positively masculine. He didn’t resent that, but it wouldn’t be the first time only Aziraphale’s word would get him membership into a club such as this.

“So I apologised to Ezra about the rumours, and he said that it’s you who I should apologise to. That he doesn’t mind some jealousy, but that you clearly didn’t deserve people resenting you for dating him, when he seems to think you’re perfectly heterosexual.” The way Richard had said ‘hetero’ shook him back to the present. What? The Fuck?

He looked at the bartender, who’s smile was starting to falter.

“Stop trying to play me, you won’t live to tell the tale.” A little too far, but the angel wasn’t there to hold him back. “The real reason Aziraphale would try to warn me away from this calamity is what I would do to you, I think.” Aziraphale didn’t think he was straight, did he? How would that even work? Demon, remember? “What’s your agenda?”

“Huh?” He looked a little shaken, but was probably used enough to threats. Quick to come to his senses, maybe not so bad as he first seemed. “Uuh, so I saw how you two were together, and I’ve known Ez-Azira for years. I know what he’s like, and that looked a hell of a lot like flirting from where I was sitting. And then you left together. I got over my crush on him years ago, but Azira Fell leaving with any man is gonna turn a few heads here. I just assumed you were a thing, that there was something between the two of you-”

“So you told the whole bar?” What’s-his-name was right, why was everybody here obsessed with that damned angel.

“They asked. There wasn’t much else I could say. And then there were the gossips, so soon enough everybody knew.”

“And now nobody will make eye contact with me?”

“Yup. Sorry about that. I apologised to Azira, and he said he would warn you off.”

“I don’t just do what he says.” Richard only raised an eyebrow. Crowley willed his cheeks not to blush, set his mouth into a scowl. “Right, my time to confront an angel,” He stood up, gave a last look at Richard, A smile that showed his teeth. “Cheerio.”

He enjoyed the slight flinch.

—

“Aziraphale! You sorry excuse for an angel!” Crowley did not care that there were customers in the shop. Aziraphale would not mind a few bad reviews, rumours about rowdy customers.

“Oh, hello… Anthony…” The use of his first name made him stop short. Only Aziraphale pronounced the ‘th’. It sounded so soft in the angel’s mouth. No! He was angry. “How nice to see you.” And Aziraphale knew it.

“Got any wine?”

“Right, yes, uuh. In the back.” That brought him up short. Good. “I’ll just lock up.” Crowley slithered through the shop, his presumably-snakeskin shoes scuffing against the bare floorboards. He didn’t bother with a glass as he took the bottle and collapsed on the sofa.

“Why did you tell your bartender friend I was straight?” Crowley himself didn’t know why that’s where he began.

“Oh, well, it was easier than telling him that you’re a genderless demon who I have never known to form any kind of relationship, except apparently for casual sex with people from my local.”

“So it wasn’t so all those nice young men wouldn’t stop fawning over you whenever you deigned to enter their company?”

“Whatever do you mean, Crowley?”

“You call me a demon, a snake, but which of us is the better tempter?” He knew his forked tongue was showing, his ‘lisp’ rising to prominence. He had risen back to his feet, all nervous energy. A drop of wine had spilled from the bottle.

Aziraphale’s cheeks darkened at the accusation, but whether in embarrassment or anger Crowley could not be sure.

“I don’t tempt them, Crowley.”

“No?” He was too close to shouting now, emotions spiralling. Fast in the quiet shop.

“Nobody I have ever been interested in has... fawned over me, as you so beautifully put it.” Crowley was too wound up to catch the slip. They were closer now, glaring eye to opaque glass.

“So you just like the flattery?”

“No! Crowley, no.” And just like that, the anger had broken. Aziraphale was no avenging angel tonight. He never liked to argue with Crowley, and certainly not when he was clearly upset about something. “Please, my dear, I am not here for you to take your frustrations out on. Either you can act like an adult, and we can get very drunk and talk about it when we can’t remember our own names, or you can leave.”

“I hope you don’t tell those children you hang out with to behave like that.”

—

Two A.M., and they were indeed very drunk. At some point, Crowley had curled up around Aziraphale and had fallen asleep in the angel’s lap. He had never detailed what caused the outburst, but Aziraphale had some ideas. They had time.

Forgiveness was a thing for mortals, with short lives and limitless free will. Aziraphale was very skilled at holding a grudge, but never against Crowley. With the snake's head in his lap, the slight hiss coming through every so often, he was able to forget the conflict that had preceded their drinking session. Or remove it from his immediate recollection, at least. He was left to contemplate his friend without scrutiny, and no one would know he stared.

Crowley had bleached his hair recently. He called them frosted tips. Definitely demonic—Aziraphale ran his fingers through the ends. A louder hiss and his hand was stayed, though he did not remove it.

Crowley was angry about his behaviour at the Forbidden Fruit. He did not want people to think that he was dating an angel, clearly. This was understandable; they had little contact with their respective sides anymore, but that mattered little. He had a reputation, they both did. They could either of them still be disciplined for fraternization. Why it hadn't happened at any previous point in their long acquaintance, Aziraphale couldn't say, but he was sure up(and down)stairs had their reasons. The demon had always been somewhat... neurotic? Hysteric, he had heard be said. Anxious may be the preferred term. It was not unusual for him to be on edge; likely it was that that was the issue.

—

Crowley awoke to the bitter cut of an Italian blend, slightly burnt. His headache had certainly been sent straight from hell. The sound of Aziraphale's kitchen ministrations were fighting with the coffee smell for what was more sickening. If proper demons revelled in hangovers, he had never been a proper demon.

He was back to his normal post-sleep self—irritated, but not actively homicidal—by the time he had stumbled to the kitchen. The macchinetta was just bubbling, a kettle was whistling, and the devilish/angelic being was spooning Lapsang Souchong into a teapot.

"Quite the breakfast, Angel." He was satisfied by Aziraphale’s slight jump, "Is that your best leaf?"

"I... uh, sit down, would you? I feel I must apologise for how I have behaved recently."

"And how is that?"

"Letting the Fruit think we were dating, I realise that it can’t have been comfortable for you," He was speaking in vagueries, still keeping Crowley in the dark. "I really must apologise for the stress I have put you through, I hope that downstairs haven't been in touch?"

"What do-"

"I didn't think, when I considered it to be harmless. I should have warned you away more, so as to not put you in that situation. I don’t actively tempt those boys, but they do rather gravitate to the ethereal essence. They must think me the archangel of lonely gay men..."

"Isn't that blasphemy?" Crowley was in a daze, nonplussed two-fold by every new word out the angel's mouth. He was rambling, clearly nervous, and his chuckle at Crowley's joke was false, forced.

"It wasn't that I was hopeful when Richard told me, but I thought it might at least get the boys' attention off me for a time. I didn't intend for you to get pulled into this, my dear. Please believe that."

"Hopeful?" Crowley’s breath caught, his voice little more than a whisper. He reminded his body that it didn’t need air anyways. But Aziraphale was too caught up in his ramble to hear.

"I will go inform them of the truth at once," And his breath came back all at once, blood hammering in his ears.

"Don't do that," Crowley's voice was weak still, but his grip around Aziraphale's wrist was firm. "Let them believe it, it harms no one. I was just..." Not that, "I won't go to the Fruit anymore, it wasn't my scene anyway."

Crowley did not recognise Aziraphale's expression. He had stopped speaking, frozen in his walk to the door, his head turned back. Crowley was still holding his wrist. Their eyes met, Crowley did not believe what he saw.

"Thank you, dear boy," But that wasn't what he meant.

—

Next time Aziraphale visited the Fruit, Crowley was not there.

"So you told him?" Richard explained that he hadn't been back, that the demon's absence had been noted by the regulars, though not exactly mourned.

"He said to let them believe it."

"Sure he did," The barman nodded as he poured out Aziraphale's white wine, "Anyway, I've been talking with the others and they've finalised the draft. We're gonna start handing it out."

"That's brilliant, dear boy! Please do send me some copies, I'll be sure to stock them."

"Look, no offence, Azira, but..." Aziraphale flinched at the name, but Richard did not seem to see. He was focussed on an older man a drink, two fingers of whiskey. Aziraphale knew that one, he had been side-eyeing the Angel since the Fruit had 'learned about' Crowley. But they would get used to it. "It's really not fitting with your other books..."

"Do you want to explain that to my collection of first edition Wilde?"

"It's hardly the same."

"Oh, but it is,"

"Are you sure Anthony doesn't mind?" Aziraphale did not show any discomfort at the change of topic. "I don't know him as well as you do, but he was not happy when he left here."

Aziraphale ruminated on that, sipping at the wine more slowly than his wont. Crowley did mind, but that was the part that disconcerted him. He had let it stand on the assumption that this was Crowley, and it was hardly the first time people had made such assumptions. But Aziraphale had never known him to care a jot about human relationships, and now he was upset?

"I have no clue what's gotten into him, it’s unlike him to care about such a thing. But I am sorry for whatever he said to you. He has… a mouth on him."

"He was... angry. But-" Richard turned away, "I get it? Look, Azira, don't get me wrong. You're great, you're one of our best customers, I really appreciate the help you've given us but... don't lead him along? It’s not like you."

"What?" Now the angel was not hiding his confusion. He had been around for millenia, and understood the phrase 'lead him on' (only just), but could not grasp how it could pertain to this context.

"It's fine if you're not into him, he seems to understand that much, but you must realise how he feels about you?"

"What?"

"He is more obvious than any other guy in here?"

"Oh no, dear boy, that's just the way he is." Aziraphale was fiddling with the stem of his wine glass, staring at the back of Richard’s head.

"I watched him pick up a guy and he was flirting less.” Richard turned. “Didn't even know his name, I'm pretty sure."

"Crowley is... not like that..."

"He also really doesn't like being called straight." Damn being slow. Aziraphale downed the wine. Why? What had that snake been up to, paying attention to labels that meant nothing to him? He had been in and out of various discreet establishments for as long as Aziraphale had, tagging along, and had never... engaged. Granted, neither had Aziraphale, but he was an angel.

The labels that had always been applied to him meant nothing to Aziraphale either, only people seemed to expect him to go to places like this, and those there had always needed his protection; it was his angelic duty to help them. But that meant nought to the demon.

Following you.

He stood up.

"Fuck, Richard, I have to go." He dropped a random amount of money on the bar and left.

Richard’s eyes widened at the curse, and he picked up the two fifty pound notes he had been left with.

—

It was rare for Aziraphale to visit Crowley's apartment. It was too hot and humid, there were plants everywhere, and his sofas were nowhere near soft enough. Crowley assured him that the bed was far more comfortable, but Aziraphale had historically ignored that comment and insisted they meet in the bookshop.

The last time they had spoken was that final conversation about the Fruit. It had been a week, it was not unheard of them to not meet for weeks, months, years at a time. But he had wine, and he was knocking hard on Crowley's door. Perhaps he was-

"What is it, Angel?" Asleep. Crowley's hair was sticking up, his eyes squinting. He was not wearing sunglasses, Aziraphale tended to forget quite how striking those eyes were. To avoid them, Aziraphale pushed past Crowley into the apartment.

"I was talking to Richard."

"Fuck Richard, why are you-"

But Aziraphale stepped a little too close, and Crowley’s unshielded eyes widened a fraction.

"Sorry for waking you," He smiled. "And sorry for what happened at the Fruit, and uuh. Letting it go on without asking you. I thought, I could make it up to you?" He lifted up the very expensive wine, watched the further expansion of Crowley's pupils. All so slight. As the angel stepped closer, a very slight blush. Unnecessary breath speeding up. The lightest of kisses on a cheek, the smell of perpetually clean linen, slightly scorched. Crowley's hands reaching up to his arms, nudging him away.

"Why-?" His voice cracked. "Give me that wine." He pulled out the cork with his hand, Raised the lips of the bottle to his own, tipped it back.

"Anthony?"

"What the He-Heav-Why? Aziraphale?"

"Richard said-"

"Shut up about Richard. Why are you doing this?"

"I thought you wanted-"

"Get out." But he didn't move. This wasn't going right, and if he left now he didn't know how long it would be until he saw Crowley again. The venom in the snake’s voice was light, playful. Teasing, readying to strike.

"If you don't want-"

"Of course I want, Angel. Just like every other man at that pub of yours. Do you show up to their doors with thousand pound wine?" Another swig. “It’s swill, by the way.”

"Of course not..."

"Is that what you did for Richard?"

"No!" After shouting, Aziraphale snatched back the bottle of wine, took a swig, then a long slow breath out. "I came here because I wanted to. You're my friend, Crowley. And I didn't to ruin that, but then Richard told me to stop-” Another swig, the wine was poor, “To stop leading you on-"

"Hah."

"And I had always assumed that you weren't interested, that... that was just another human assumption. But I started to hope, and I got carried away, and- I came here to apologise, but I just made it worse. Shall we just get horrendously drunk and forget all about it?" He had allowed himself hope, and now must hold back treacherous tears.

But Crowley was kissing him, on the lips this time, and when he poured them both glasses, they stopped after just one. There were far too important things to talk about.

—

A week later, Crowley was at the bar at the Forbidden Fruit. Richard hadn’t spoken to him, eyeing him strangely. Perhaps he had never seen a snake smile so widely.[3]

Perhaps, if Richard hid a smile behind his hand, he was happy for an old friend.

“The angel sent me to collect those papers.” Richard willed his expression to a neutral, then an absent smile.

“He filled you in at last? Watch the bar, I’ll grab them.”

He returned with a handful of zines, enjoyed the confusion on the man’s face. His eyes hidden, it was hard to detect, but this Crowley was easier to read than his friend.

“How _is_ Azira?” Followed by a blush. The colour on Crowley’s cheeks was not pink, but Richard put that down to the light.

“I think you’re about to see.” The barman didn’t know how Crowley could have sensed Azira, but he did walk through the door at that moment. Seeing Crowley and Richard together, he grinned, though Crowley did not turn around to see. The _angel_ ’s step was light as he strolled through the bar, set a light kiss on Crowley’s cheek, and grinned at Richard.

“How’s the pamphlet?” And Crowley held it up. “What, how?”

“Just a touch of subterfuge, Angel.” And still that blush was an inhuman shade, but the two of them seemed blind to the stares of the other patrons, at least.

[1] Well, perhaps a little.

.[2Crowley had claimed to hell that the practice of buying up London property for tax reasons was all his own doing, but it was a little too unsubtle for his tastes.[return to text]

3It is a myth that snakes can unhinge their jaws, but if Crowley’s jawbone needed to unfuse for him to smile so broadly, no one could possibly comment.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed.


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